Donna Reed and June Cleaver sit in Donna’s kitchen having coffee. June is chain-smoking Camels, unfiltered.
“This role-model crap is killing me,” says Donna.
“I never even wanted children,” says June.
“Every morning it’s the same thing. The phone rings, and I sweep down the stairs, not hair out of place, smiling like the sun shines out of my ass. And it’s never for me. The call is never for me,” says Donna.
“What is a beaver anyway? Isn’t it a rodent of some kind? At least your kids have normal names,” says June.
“Just once I’d like to come downstairs in my robe and curlers and see that they’ve all bagged their own goddamn lunches,” says Donna.
“Did you see that outfit they put me in last week? Who the hell wears pearls and a cocktail dress to do laundry. And now I’m getting hate mail from women complaining that their husbands want them to dress nicer. Like it’s my fault. They weren’t even real pearls,” says June.
“Would you like something stronger?” says Donna, pulling a bottle of Stoli from the freezer.
“What do you say we bust out of this black-and-white world, Donna? Go find ourselves some living color — someplace where no one knows us and there are no more shirts to iron, or beds to make, or children whining ‘What’s for dinner?’ What do you say?”
“But June, what would we do? We only know how to be television mothers. How do we even know there are any other roles out there for us?” says Donna.
June lights up another Camel as Donna pours vodka over two tumblers of ice.
“You know something, June. I never wanted children either,” says Donna.